Watching over a lone rider
by mike marcellino
A postcard half moon,
stamped on a dark envelope
in the empty night sky.
A postcard half moon,
rested in her fuzzy white nest,
tattered cloud of sorts.
Postcard half moon,
cradled thoughts,
wishes,
distant dreams,
desires
beyond his reach,
lost.
Postcard half moon
looked upon a world,
black and white,
traveled on seas,
time and space
watching over a lone rider.
Copyright by mike marcellino 2009
Notebook Writer: poetry, music, photography and writing of Mike Marcellino
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
President Obama rallies for health care reform
President Barack Obama
Town Hall Meeting On Health Care Reform
Shaker Heights High School
Shaker Heights, Ohio
by Mike Marcellino
Challenges Facing Americans
Being a relatively kind journalist, in my travels over the past two days, I’ve tried to “set the stage” for President Obama’s Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform at Shaker Heights High School. My two sons and stepdaughter all went to school there.
Ari, my youngest just graduated from Ohio State University. Sean went out to LA to be a rock star after singing in Jesus Crisis Super Star and every other musical at Shaker High. He went to the School for the Recording Arts in Hollywood, still has a band, opened for Deep Purple before 5000 people outside and lives and works as a sound engineer in Germany. Rachael, got her LPN from Cuyahoga Community College and has made a career as a concierge in Las Vegas after working as a nurse in a doctor’s office for a year.
Shaker Heights High School is touted as one of the best public high schools in the country and some students do win a lot of academic honors.
I know one thing for sure – the Red Raiders hockey team - against all odds - won the Ohio state championship in 2001 and Ari, played right wing. He had a sweet left handed shot, finesse and pin point passes. His team members were swell. No one expected the Raiders to win anything that year. I blogged a story about that magical season on the Shaker Youth Hockey website. His journey began at 8, but most kids started at 3 or 4. It was our family’s life, and the life of many families, a good life and lots of fun traveling to Pennsylvania, St. Louis, New York, Michigan and Canada, getting creamed in the latter two.
While I was a long time newspaper reporter, winning a couple of national awards for investigative and community journalism, I decided to cover President Obama’s meeting with the public as myself - a veteran of the United States Army who barely survived a year as a combat correspondent and photojournalist covering every kind of mission under the boiling sun and monsoon rains.
I wrote for years about the health, personal and family costs of combat stress as far back as the 1970s. That’s when Dr. John Wilson, a Cleveland State University psychologist and professor, helped coin the phrase, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.” This continues to help millions of people, not just veterans, around the world suffering from traumatic stress. He interviewed 600 Vietnam combat veterans from across our nation and published “The Forgotten Warrior Project.”
Years later, in a meeting room at the United States Department of Veterans Affairs Louis Stokes Medical Center in Brecksville, I looked up at chalk board filled with the symptoms that I and a half dozen combat veterans identified ourselves.
I said to myself, “Man, Mike, you got some of all of these, a classic case.”
Actually, I have post VA hospital stress disorder, as the system, though a leader in what I call “bionic prosthetics” is just about as screwed up as the private system. The VA system is still rated one of the best hospital systems in the country. I know a lot of people in the Cleveland hospital. For the most part the staff is dedicated, hard working and they respect veterans. The VA has improved to be sure since the 1970s and 1980s when I wrote about it or attended weekly investigative meetings as an aide to former Congressman Stokes. Well, the body count is lower now and most veterans still don’t complain.
I don’t look forward to going to the VA. I go often, oh, for prostate surgery, or hernia surgery and a four month long prostate related bacterial urinary tract infection, and for a while PTSD. I think about having prostate cancer, or some other cancer picked up from all the Agent Orange we sprayed from planes to defoliate South Vietnam. Actually, some days at the VA go well – good, friendly doctors who actually entertain and answer questions and listen, and cute, funny nurses. I do like seeing and sometimes talking with my fellow veterans, including those from Iraq and Afghanistan.
If I had prostate cancer, I’d get disability compensation. Not a pleasant thought though.
Got up before six this morning, made coffee, French roast, downed a couple cups, smoked a Bugler roll your own cigarettes and got to work. Just after 8 I got an email confirming that I get in the door at Shaker High to cover President Obama’s Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform. That’s a mouthful. Actually the health care mess is more than a mouthful, it’s a monster.
Getting through Tower City on my bike, a Japanese model, to avoid a hill, I asked a young woman of color on the elevator, “Did you know Obama’s coming to Cleveland tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
“What do you think about his health care reform?”
“We’ll see what happens,” she said smiling. I smiled too.
At the tiny specialized office supply in the Standard Building, the only place I can get reporters’ notebooks, I asked the thin, mild mannered, friendly clerk, “Did you know Obama’s going to be in town tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“What do you think of Obama’s health care reform?” I asked him.
“Nutrition.” His one word answer. He went on to point out that there could be a lot less grossly overweight and obese people if they paid any attention to nutrition.
Since I felt these interviews were pretty revealing and comprehensive I gave myself a coffee break at Phoenix on West 9th Street in the yuppie Warehouse District. I got a European blend, like Dutch or something, medium roast. But I was preoccupied trying to “set the stage” for President Obama’s Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform and my series of blogs I would start posting tomorrow.
A man of color on a bench outside the cafe, just behind me, bummed a Bugler and rolled it.
“Did you know President Obama is coming to Shaker Heights tomorrow?” I asked him, really nailing the question at this point.
“They’re trying to derail him,” he said flatly, meaning his detractors and enemies in Congress are using President Obama’s shot at providing health care to everyone to stop the popular president with a Hollywood glow in his tracks. He says these people don’t care about health care one way or the other.
He told me President Obama is right about health care reform. He agrees that everyone should have health care.
But, he added, “There’s a lot of racism still left in America. He told me he had come from in a little town in Mississippi, near Memphis. The man, in his fifties I guess, said he blew his lips out playing the trumpet, touching them with his hand. He took off running for the trolley to find a friend.
To cap off my “setting the stage” for President Obama’s town hall meeting, I called a few people that I trust and have some sense left. I told them I was covering Obama’s town hall meeting at Shaker Heights High School tomorrow and asked them what do they think about health care in America and President Obama’s reform package.
Boy did I get an ear full. Now I know for sure the health care crisis in my country is a total disaster, a monster, and it must be fixed or America will go under a sea of red ink. Here’s just some of what ”my team of experts" had to say. Be prepared, it’s frightening.
“While you read this stuff I’m taking my antibiotic. I have to stop forgetting,” I said to myself.
Here’s the scoop –
America doesn’t compete very well in health care with the rest of the developed nations in the world. These other countries provide access to health care for everyone but taxes are higher than ours, at least in most cases.
Since we don’t compete in health care, we don’t compete very well in everything else, i.e., jobs, the economy.
That stuff comes from my brother. He used to be a newspaper reporter too and then did corporate PR for a major power company.
But, my brother’s final point I liked best.
“We need a department of coordination.” he said sleepily. I could hear his pain from bad disks, surgery, procedures and pills. He says every time we try to fix a big problem we screw something else up while we’re at it.
My economic guru, a former sports reporter and CPA, really had the shocker.
“Anchor babies. Ask Obama what he’d do about anchor babies.” he said. I could tell over the phone he was smiling somewhat as I was as to just how preposterous this was.
My friend says that illegal immigrants each year give birth to 500,000 “anchor babies.”
“How many illegal immigrants are there,” I asked him. He said about 20 million. And more and more and coming to take advantage of our health care system and working in laboring jobs, driving wages down.
He pointed out that by making our health care better we are actually inviting more illegal immigrants to cross the border and take advantage of our stuff. He said Congress should get rid of the law granting citizenship to children of illegal immigrants.
But, my chief economic advisor wasn’t finished. He claims, excuse the expression, that insurance companies charge people without insurance two to three times what they charge people with insurance.
“Man, that’s sounds backwards to me,” I reacted.
Oh, he also points out that in his humble opinion insurance companies are a total rip off.
“They try to get you to pay as much money as they can get for your policy and try not to pay claims, and are very good at it, making tons of money.”
A Palestinian friend can’t figure out how President Obama is going to get the drug and insurance companies to go along with his health care reform when they are making so much money right now doing what they do best, making money. Now, the President did say in his news conference tonight that the drug companies are pledging $80 billion dollars to health care reform. Somehow these days that doesn’t seem like very much.
A small businessman and artist, he thinks the only way to pay for health care is cutting military spending. Even President Obama admits that Medicare and Medicaid alone, left alone, will “break” out country. “See why I find this scary?” My friend also thinks the way to heal our economy is by supporting growth of small business, kind of like starting all over in America. He adds that Congress is kind of in the sleep mode.
My chief economic advisor winds up my effort to “set the stage” for President Obama’s Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform.
He read that colleges are closing nursing schools to tighten their belts because they are too expensive, lab equipment and all. Yet, there is a real shortage of nurses.
“See, this gets right back to my brother’s point which my chief economic advisor agrees with.
“We desperately need a department of coordination.” I thought.
Finally, my chief economic advisor says without a shudder, “Forty percent of our health care costs are for patients in the last six months of their lives.”
He told me there are hospitals in Florida with nothing but patients on ventilators. Yea, I know, you say, “Boy, he’s all heart,” but he says he has no problem if someone wants to keep their loved one alive in a comma or vegetating, if they pay for it out of their own pocket.
My Palestinian friend, kind of my secretary for peace, wonders why the United States has 40,000 troops in England, and thousands in Germany and a few odd places I can’t remember, maybe the Philippines. He says the only way to find money to pay for health care reform, saving lives, is to close down some of these bases. He says there are something like 60 of them or more. He figures no one in America is going to readily give up their guns so to speak and actually cut weapons of low to mass destruction.
My friend also reported to me that the drug companies had recently won the favor of many congressmen and senators in recent days. They donate a lot of money to them.
Oh, I almost forgot. A 20 something girl with a nose ring serving coffee said she didn’t know President Obama was coming to Cleveland tomorrow.
“What do you think of Obama and health care reform,” I asked politely.
“I have 8000 words,” about that, she replied, looking up slightly and then facing me. But she had “no comment.”
“Are we going in the right direction?” I asked.
“The wrong direction,” she replied without explanation.
“I guess that explains why some of my young friends are anarchists,” I thought.
Last word for “setting the stage” goes to my very tired, at this point in the phone call, chief economic advisor.
“No matter what is in the bill that goes to conference from the Senate, very few Congressmen will read it,” he says, his temperature rising. “The bill may run 300 pages, maybe a lot more, and they will get it one day and pass it the next.”
“This is ludicrous,” I gasped.
Well, finally, I have my say in “setting the stage” for President Obama’s Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform at Shaker Heights High School where my kids went.
One thing I know for sure –
Vietnam combat veterans outnumber all combat veterans of all other wars combined and they are flocking to the Veterans Affairs medial centers all over the country with all kinds of ailments and conditions.
And sadly, when the many many Vietnam War veterans are finally coming home they’re finding not enough room at the inn.
See tonight’s Notebookwriter Blog for the second in the series of street journalist Mike Marcellino’s coverage President Obama’s visit to Cleveland and his Town Hall Meeting on Health Care Reform at Shaker Heights High School where my kids went to school.
I switched to Gambler roll um up cigarette tobacco for a change. This morning I heard on National Public Radio the 188th British soldier was killed in Afghanistan and wondered how many of my American brothers and sisters have died.
Copyright 2009 by Mike Marcellino
Friday, July 17, 2009
That Amish cup, a poem
That Amish cup
by mike marcellino
On a late night train, one time, not on time.
"God," i pleaded, give me
a cup of coffee,
with caffeine."
Down a few rows, upfront in the car
of the Lincoln country train
headed for the corn fields of Ioway,
an Amish man, his son and daughter
stood out. Bearded with the straw hat 'n' blue jean overalls.
'Have you seen Witness," i asked sheepishly
smiling, remembering.
"Man that was the greatest
love scene i've ever seen."
"You know, slow dancing in an old barn garage,
next ta that baby blue dream machine."
'Course, dancin, film, ain’t the Amish scene,
But, we do all dream.
"Man, could i go for a cup......"
Before i got the word "coffee" out,
his father had poured me one.
Yes, we do all dream,
witness scenes, played by different actors.
That Amish cup,
love -
richest gift i coulda got.
copyright mike marcellino That Amish cup 2009
by mike marcellino
On a late night train, one time, not on time.
"God," i pleaded, give me
a cup of coffee,
with caffeine."
Down a few rows, upfront in the car
of the Lincoln country train
headed for the corn fields of Ioway,
an Amish man, his son and daughter
stood out. Bearded with the straw hat 'n' blue jean overalls.
'Have you seen Witness," i asked sheepishly
smiling, remembering.
"Man that was the greatest
love scene i've ever seen."
"You know, slow dancing in an old barn garage,
next ta that baby blue dream machine."
'Course, dancin, film, ain’t the Amish scene,
But, we do all dream.
"Man, could i go for a cup......"
Before i got the word "coffee" out,
his father had poured me one.
Yes, we do all dream,
witness scenes, played by different actors.
That Amish cup,
love -
richest gift i coulda got.
copyright mike marcellino That Amish cup 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Amelia Earhart, soft silver wings
Amelia Earhart, soft silver wings
by mike marcellino
"Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things." Amelia Earhart, 1927
amelia earhart,
Love your picture
in flight.
Love your goggles,
love your lips.
Love how you circled the world,
single handed.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Like that leather
air cap.
You’re a goddess, a woman,
soft white,
ahead of your time,
such afterglow
night
in shinning armor.
hip, hop
stop,
go
all the way.
Meet me on a northern coast,
not far from the equator,
above the island
where they made King Kong.
Your Atlantis, risen
in my South China Sea.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Oh, your last flight.
Oh your last flight.
What a night.
Looking at your picture
in my book,
soft silver
soft silver
wings.
Check your suit
put on your black dress.
Your lips, painted colors
light, pretty pink.
Those eyes,
imagine,
sigh.
Your nails, natural,
fingertips.
Taking you with me
the upper part of my mind.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Soft silver
soft silver
wings.
Courage
Courage is the price that Life extracts for granting peace.
The soul that knows it not, knows no release.
From little things.
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear.
Not mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sound of wings.
How can life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull grey ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the restless day,
And count it fair.
- Amelia Earhart, 1927
You made the crossing
not alone.
Meet you over the Atlantic.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Soft silver,
soft silver,
wings.
copyright Mike Marcellino amelia earhart 2009
by mike marcellino
"Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace. The soul that knows it not, knows no release from little things." Amelia Earhart, 1927
amelia earhart,
Love your picture
in flight.
Love your goggles,
love your lips.
Love how you circled the world,
single handed.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Like that leather
air cap.
You’re a goddess, a woman,
soft white,
ahead of your time,
such afterglow
night
in shinning armor.
hip, hop
stop,
go
all the way.
Meet me on a northern coast,
not far from the equator,
above the island
where they made King Kong.
Your Atlantis, risen
in my South China Sea.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Oh, your last flight.
Oh your last flight.
What a night.
Looking at your picture
in my book,
soft silver
soft silver
wings.
Check your suit
put on your black dress.
Your lips, painted colors
light, pretty pink.
Those eyes,
imagine,
sigh.
Your nails, natural,
fingertips.
Taking you with me
the upper part of my mind.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Soft silver
soft silver
wings.
Courage
Courage is the price that Life extracts for granting peace.
The soul that knows it not, knows no release.
From little things.
Knows not the livid loneliness of fear.
Not mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
The sound of wings.
How can life grant us boon of living, compensate
For dull grey ugliness and pregnant hate
Unless we dare
The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay
With courage to behold the restless day,
And count it fair.
- Amelia Earhart, 1927
You made the crossing
not alone.
Meet you over the Atlantic.
amelia earhart
amelia earhart
amelia.
Soft silver,
soft silver,
wings.
copyright Mike Marcellino amelia earhart 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Love and war poems
Symptoms of love
Almost the Fourth of July
a two part piece with symptoms overflowing into fourth of july
copyright mike marcellino 2009
Part I: Symptoms of love
by mike marcellino
Symptoms of love
You remember Robin
your first girl
Tomboy.
Eating hot peppers
on a dare
from three cute
California girls
giving kisses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You remember rolling in sand
dunes
with an Armenian girl
you called Margaret
saying goodbye
in a New York City
hotel room,
a picture of a four poster bed.
It it still possible?
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You think there may not be an end. Like the Blue Hole in western Ohio
You rediscover discover,
happy. again,
over little things. nothing
special.
You feel, slowly.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You clean out the ice box.
Find Carolina ham
dated your son’s birthday.
How long does it this last, you wonder?
You want to call California
Have the Ohio apple left. Miss her.
Your appetite’s back. It left.
You remember roller coasters.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Love songs on every station.
Eat like a bird.
Upside down. Spin.
Catch constellations.
Drink Costa Rican,
Shiner bock
across Texas again.
You think, “It’s possible.”
Head for cover,
bleached out
Transatlantic.
Sheets of clouds,
blue, white
pink sun glasses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You bought a back dress. Put it
carefully on a hanger.
Think about phone sex.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.You keep losing things.The things you haven't lost, you can't find.You watch a light
searching night clouds.
Part II: almost the fourth of july
by mike marcellino
almost the fourth of july
find yourself
shaken to the core, this day
that day
fill up from the tank of your soul.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You made it.
Run to the other side,
wonder how to survive
in a world going mad.
No check today,
bills arrive.
On point,
alone out there
nothing but a forty-five.
Fighting your way
ever so carefully
guarded,
go your way
through these fields of fire
terrible storms
hit any time.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Outside, the battle rages.
You skirt by The Monument
to soldiers of America’s civil
war, the union side, but you’re
from below the mason dixon
riots in Baltimore
You're on both sides.
Find yourself at 36-9 palms
still alive,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
Shaken to the core.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Every soldier’s afraid
deep inside
determined to survive.
In thy light shall we see the light
Thirty six nine
A few clicks away
wars rage.
You’re not dead, alive,
only wounded,
a bit broken.
shaken to the core
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Roll a gambler cigarette,
brothers cover you.
“Make the call. You could win ten thousand,”
the cashier tells you.
“Fuck that,” you say,
think about yourself,
then Buddy,
listen to Bruce Springsteen
land of rock and roll,
capital
center of what makes the world go round.
Listen to the music,
the music,
the music.
Bitter disappointments
rush at you, tearing at you inside.
Pack it up right,
live
to fight another day.
Change the station.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Get back on the trail
to Van Gogh,
Morrison,
Gandhi
instrumental classic.
“Who is John Galt”
You wrote on the steel pot
you never wore.
Take the pain
Keep faith.
It’s not to lose or gain.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
A boy of six aims the cannon
to sea.
Keep ahead of the storms
that surround you. They keep coming. They keep coming.
Take the glider
from the lakefront strip, watch napalm cascades.
Stop in sight
of shelter. This time
Cleveland public power,
whales paint the water, not killers.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july,
Follow Zapata,
Tom Johnson, King
Bobby,
his brother’s soldier.
Manry did,
Lindberg, Amelia.
Head for the northern coast.
Drop into the Ashau Valley
rounds fly
zing, skip
zing. Sing; never hear the round that kills you.
Rockets burst,
mortars
thump,
thump,
thump
around you.
You’re still alive, lucky fucker
no flack jacket,
no steel
pot.
Returned the borrowed 45,
Rusty.
You’re close,
almost there. Almost home.
“Do you want to go there?”
she asks, sincerely.
Symptoms of love symptoms of love symptoms of love
Try to make 15 clicks an hour.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
You’re there,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
“Indestructible?”
Ok, pretend, anyway.
“How did you get out
in or near Cambodia?”
Night across the border.
Do you really want to go there?
Words and thoughts the same.
Chose life.
Live to fight
another day.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Ahimsa -
Stop, the sign read.
Lock and load, tap your clip
slip it on full automatic.
Spell check, man
Ahimsa
You’re in the X age.
Hell to pay, hell to pay.
Drink water,
keep trained
minefield roads,
trails of tears.
Dance with wolves, English patient
Chose life,
chose life,
music of Bob Marley,
Dylan, Arlo, or Woody Guthrie, Cash & The Clash.
“You’ve got a message.”
Head above waters
of the Johnston Flood,
Katrina,
San Francisco earthquake.
almost the fourth of july.
You’re not dead,
only wounded.
symptoms of love and almost the fourth of july copyright mike marcellino 2009
Almost the Fourth of July
a two part piece with symptoms overflowing into fourth of july
copyright mike marcellino 2009
Part I: Symptoms of love
by mike marcellino
Symptoms of love
You remember Robin
your first girl
Tomboy.
Eating hot peppers
on a dare
from three cute
California girls
giving kisses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You remember rolling in sand
dunes
with an Armenian girl
you called Margaret
saying goodbye
in a New York City
hotel room,
a picture of a four poster bed.
It it still possible?
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You think there may not be an end. Like the Blue Hole in western Ohio
You rediscover discover,
happy. again,
over little things. nothing
special.
You feel, slowly.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You clean out the ice box.
Find Carolina ham
dated your son’s birthday.
How long does it this last, you wonder?
You want to call California
Have the Ohio apple left. Miss her.
Your appetite’s back. It left.
You remember roller coasters.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Love songs on every station.
Eat like a bird.
Upside down. Spin.
Catch constellations.
Drink Costa Rican,
Shiner bock
across Texas again.
You think, “It’s possible.”
Head for cover,
bleached out
Transatlantic.
Sheets of clouds,
blue, white
pink sun glasses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You bought a back dress. Put it
carefully on a hanger.
Think about phone sex.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.You keep losing things.The things you haven't lost, you can't find.You watch a light
searching night clouds.
Part II: almost the fourth of july
by mike marcellino
almost the fourth of july
find yourself
shaken to the core, this day
that day
fill up from the tank of your soul.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You made it.
Run to the other side,
wonder how to survive
in a world going mad.
No check today,
bills arrive.
On point,
alone out there
nothing but a forty-five.
Fighting your way
ever so carefully
guarded,
go your way
through these fields of fire
terrible storms
hit any time.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Outside, the battle rages.
You skirt by The Monument
to soldiers of America’s civil
war, the union side, but you’re
from below the mason dixon
riots in Baltimore
You're on both sides.
Find yourself at 36-9 palms
still alive,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
Shaken to the core.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Every soldier’s afraid
deep inside
determined to survive.
In thy light shall we see the light
Thirty six nine
A few clicks away
wars rage.
You’re not dead, alive,
only wounded,
a bit broken.
shaken to the core
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Roll a gambler cigarette,
brothers cover you.
“Make the call. You could win ten thousand,”
the cashier tells you.
“Fuck that,” you say,
think about yourself,
then Buddy,
listen to Bruce Springsteen
land of rock and roll,
capital
center of what makes the world go round.
Listen to the music,
the music,
the music.
Bitter disappointments
rush at you, tearing at you inside.
Pack it up right,
live
to fight another day.
Change the station.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Get back on the trail
to Van Gogh,
Morrison,
Gandhi
instrumental classic.
“Who is John Galt”
You wrote on the steel pot
you never wore.
Take the pain
Keep faith.
It’s not to lose or gain.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
A boy of six aims the cannon
to sea.
Keep ahead of the storms
that surround you. They keep coming. They keep coming.
Take the glider
from the lakefront strip, watch napalm cascades.
Stop in sight
of shelter. This time
Cleveland public power,
whales paint the water, not killers.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july,
Follow Zapata,
Tom Johnson, King
Bobby,
his brother’s soldier.
Manry did,
Lindberg, Amelia.
Head for the northern coast.
Drop into the Ashau Valley
rounds fly
zing, skip
zing. Sing; never hear the round that kills you.
Rockets burst,
mortars
thump,
thump,
thump
around you.
You’re still alive, lucky fucker
no flack jacket,
no steel
pot.
Returned the borrowed 45,
Rusty.
You’re close,
almost there. Almost home.
“Do you want to go there?”
she asks, sincerely.
Symptoms of love symptoms of love symptoms of love
Try to make 15 clicks an hour.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
You’re there,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
“Indestructible?”
Ok, pretend, anyway.
“How did you get out
in or near Cambodia?”
Night across the border.
Do you really want to go there?
Words and thoughts the same.
Chose life.
Live to fight
another day.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Ahimsa -
Stop, the sign read.
Lock and load, tap your clip
slip it on full automatic.
Spell check, man
Ahimsa
You’re in the X age.
Hell to pay, hell to pay.
Drink water,
keep trained
minefield roads,
trails of tears.
Dance with wolves, English patient
Chose life,
chose life,
music of Bob Marley,
Dylan, Arlo, or Woody Guthrie, Cash & The Clash.
“You’ve got a message.”
Head above waters
of the Johnston Flood,
Katrina,
San Francisco earthquake.
almost the fourth of july.
You’re not dead,
only wounded.
symptoms of love and almost the fourth of july copyright mike marcellino 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Almost the Fourth of July, a poem
Almost the Fourth of July
by mike marcellino
almost the fourth of july
find yourself
shaken to the core, this day
that day
fill up from the tank of your soul.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You made it.
Run to the other side,
wonder how to survive
in a world going mad.
No check today,
bills arrive.
On point,
alone out there
nothing but a forty-five.
Fighting your way
ever so carefully
guarded,
go your way
through these fields of fire
terrible storms
hit any time.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Outside, the battle rages.
You skirt by The Monument
to soldiers of America’s civil
war, the union side, but you’re
from below the mason dixon,
from riots in Baltimore.
You're on both sides.
Find yourself at 36-9 palms
still alive,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
Shaken to the core.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Every soldier’s afraid
deep inside
determined to survive.
In thy light shall we see the light
Thirty six nine
A few clicks away
wars rage.
You’re not dead, but alive
only wounded,
a bit broken.
shaken to the core
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Roll a gambler cigarette,
brothers cover you.
“Make the call. You could win ten thousand,”
the cashier tells you.
“Fuck that,” you say,
think about yourself,
then Buddy,
listen to Bruce Springsteen
land of rock and roll,
capital
center of what makes the world go round.
Listen to the music,
the music,
the music.
Bitter disappointments
rush at you, tearing at you inside.
Pack it up right,
live
to fight another day.
Change the station.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Get back on the trail
to Van Gogh,
Morrison,
Gandhi
instrumental classic.
“Who is John Galt”
You wrote on the steel pot
you never wore.
Take the pain
Keep faith.
It’s not to lose or gain.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
A boy of six aims the cannon
to sea.
Keep ahead of the storms
that surround you. They keep coming. They keep coming.
Take the glider
from the lakefront strip, watch napalm cascades.
Stop in sight
of shelter. This time
Cleveland public power,
whales paint the water, not killers.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Follow Zapata,
Tom Johnson, King
Bobby,
his brother’s soldier.
Manry did,
Lindberg, Amelia.
Head for the northern coast.
Drop into the Ashau Valley
rounds fly
zing, skip
zing. Sing; never hear the round that kills you.
Rockets burst,
mortars
thump,
thump,
thump
around you.
You’re still alive, lucky fucker
no flack jacket,
no steel
pot.
Returned the borrowed 45,
Rusty.
You’re close,
almost there. Almost home.
“Do you really want to go there?”
she asks, sincerely.
Symptoms of love symptoms of love symptoms of love
Try to make 15 clicks an hour.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
You’re there,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
“Indestructible?”
Ok, pretend, anyway.
“How did you get out
in or near Cambodia?”
Night across the border.
Do you really want to go there?
Words and thoughts the same.
Chose life.
Live to fight
another day.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Ahimsa -
Stop sign read.
Lock and load, tap your clip
slip it on full automatic.
Spell check, man
Ahimsa
You’re in the X age.
Hell to pay, hell to pay.
Drink water,
keep trained
minefield roads,
trails of tears.
Dance with wolves, English patient
Chose life,
chose life,
music, Bob Marley.
“You’ve got a message.”
Head above waters
of the Johnston Flood,
Katrina,
San Francisco earthquake.
almost the fourth of july.
You’re not dead,
only wounded.
almost the fourth of july copyright mike marcellino 2009
by mike marcellino
almost the fourth of july
find yourself
shaken to the core, this day
that day
fill up from the tank of your soul.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You made it.
Run to the other side,
wonder how to survive
in a world going mad.
No check today,
bills arrive.
On point,
alone out there
nothing but a forty-five.
Fighting your way
ever so carefully
guarded,
go your way
through these fields of fire
terrible storms
hit any time.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Outside, the battle rages.
You skirt by The Monument
to soldiers of America’s civil
war, the union side, but you’re
from below the mason dixon,
from riots in Baltimore.
You're on both sides.
Find yourself at 36-9 palms
still alive,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
Shaken to the core.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Every soldier’s afraid
deep inside
determined to survive.
In thy light shall we see the light
Thirty six nine
A few clicks away
wars rage.
You’re not dead, but alive
only wounded,
a bit broken.
shaken to the core
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Roll a gambler cigarette,
brothers cover you.
“Make the call. You could win ten thousand,”
the cashier tells you.
“Fuck that,” you say,
think about yourself,
then Buddy,
listen to Bruce Springsteen
land of rock and roll,
capital
center of what makes the world go round.
Listen to the music,
the music,
the music.
Bitter disappointments
rush at you, tearing at you inside.
Pack it up right,
live
to fight another day.
Change the station.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Get back on the trail
to Van Gogh,
Morrison,
Gandhi
instrumental classic.
“Who is John Galt”
You wrote on the steel pot
you never wore.
Take the pain
Keep faith.
It’s not to lose or gain.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
A boy of six aims the cannon
to sea.
Keep ahead of the storms
that surround you. They keep coming. They keep coming.
Take the glider
from the lakefront strip, watch napalm cascades.
Stop in sight
of shelter. This time
Cleveland public power,
whales paint the water, not killers.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Follow Zapata,
Tom Johnson, King
Bobby,
his brother’s soldier.
Manry did,
Lindberg, Amelia.
Head for the northern coast.
Drop into the Ashau Valley
rounds fly
zing, skip
zing. Sing; never hear the round that kills you.
Rockets burst,
mortars
thump,
thump,
thump
around you.
You’re still alive, lucky fucker
no flack jacket,
no steel
pot.
Returned the borrowed 45,
Rusty.
You’re close,
almost there. Almost home.
“Do you really want to go there?”
she asks, sincerely.
Symptoms of love symptoms of love symptoms of love
Try to make 15 clicks an hour.
Peddle power, peddle power,
peddle power.
You’re there,
hell to pay, hell to pay.
“Indestructible?”
Ok, pretend, anyway.
“How did you get out
in or near Cambodia?”
Night across the border.
Do you really want to go there?
Words and thoughts the same.
Chose life.
Live to fight
another day.
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july
almost the fourth of july.
Ahimsa -
Stop sign read.
Lock and load, tap your clip
slip it on full automatic.
Spell check, man
Ahimsa
You’re in the X age.
Hell to pay, hell to pay.
Drink water,
keep trained
minefield roads,
trails of tears.
Dance with wolves, English patient
Chose life,
chose life,
music, Bob Marley.
“You’ve got a message.”
Head above waters
of the Johnston Flood,
Katrina,
San Francisco earthquake.
almost the fourth of july.
You’re not dead,
only wounded.
almost the fourth of july copyright mike marcellino 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Symptoms of love, a poem
Symptoms of love
by mike marcellino
Symptoms of love
You remember ..Robin..,
your first girl
Tomboy.
Eating hot peppers
on a dare
from three cute
....California.... girls
giving kisses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You remember rolling in sand
dunes
with an Armenian girl
you called ..Margaret..
saying goodbye
in a ....New York City....
hotel room,
a picture of a four poster bed.
It it still possible?
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You think there may not be an end. Like the Blue Hole in western Ohio.
You rediscover discover,
happy. again,
over little things. nothing
special.
You feel, slowly.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You clean out the ice box.
Find ....Carolina.... ham
dated your son’s birthday.
How long does it this last, you wonder?
You want to call ....California.....
Have the ....Ohio.... apple left. Miss her.
Your appetite’s back. It left.
You remember roller coasters.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Love songs on every station.
Eat like a bird.
Upside down. Spin.
Catch constellations.
Drink Costa Rican,
Shiner bock
across ....Texas.... again.
You think, “It’s possible.”
Head for cover,
bleached out
Transatlantic.
Sheets of clouds,
blue, white
pink sun glasses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You bought a back dress. Put it
carefully on a hanger.
Think about phone sex.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.You keep losing things.The things you haven't lost, you can't find.You watch a light
searching night clouds.
Symptoms of love copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
by mike marcellino
Symptoms of love
You remember ..Robin..,
your first girl
Tomboy.
Eating hot peppers
on a dare
from three cute
....California.... girls
giving kisses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You remember rolling in sand
dunes
with an Armenian girl
you called ..Margaret..
saying goodbye
in a ....New York City....
hotel room,
a picture of a four poster bed.
It it still possible?
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You think there may not be an end. Like the Blue Hole in western Ohio.
You rediscover discover,
happy. again,
over little things. nothing
special.
You feel, slowly.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You clean out the ice box.
Find ....Carolina.... ham
dated your son’s birthday.
How long does it this last, you wonder?
You want to call ....California.....
Have the ....Ohio.... apple left. Miss her.
Your appetite’s back. It left.
You remember roller coasters.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
Love songs on every station.
Eat like a bird.
Upside down. Spin.
Catch constellations.
Drink Costa Rican,
Shiner bock
across ....Texas.... again.
You think, “It’s possible.”
Head for cover,
bleached out
Transatlantic.
Sheets of clouds,
blue, white
pink sun glasses.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.
You bought a back dress. Put it
carefully on a hanger.
Think about phone sex.
symptoms of love
symptoms of love
symptoms of love.You keep losing things.The things you haven't lost, you can't find.You watch a light
searching night clouds.
Symptoms of love copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
His invention, a short story
His invention
by Mike Marcellino
Another chapter, Life stories series
Many days had come and gone in the writer’s life. Today, he sat down by the river to write, not sure what it would be about but had some ideas.
Sound.
He had thought about writing about sound, or soundless to be exact. Life without sound. What that would be about. Frightening, at first thought. Fortunately the writer had an answer to that dilemma – invent it. Invent sound, like the light bulb or electricity, like Edison or Franklin.
After all, it was, or is his birthday. “You’re forty-four,” said Harry already working on his first bike, wearing a Mexican bandana, but the bike shop owner was Jewish, at least he used to be with some Jewish cult, but I always forget the name. “I was Acidic,” he announces every few days. I thought, “Whatever that means.”
“Mathematics, music and the brain. What a threesome,” the writer thought.
He’d invent sound in his mind.
Things are better this morning on the Cuyahoga. Just one plastic bottle floated by. “Find the owner,” he ordered. The OD bridge is open to bikes, but not cars. “How perfect.” he said to himself.
He listened to the clanging bell. A boat, maybe. Yes, a boat. A loud whistle followed but nothing ever came round the bend. Slowly the draw bridge rose. Workmen were fixing it.
In his mind, he missed the boat, a thing he feared, missing jump off time. That’s a mission of no return.
But, the writer remembered – he had not missed a thing. It’s his birthday. He invented sound on his birthday.
He watched a train on a distant hillside, glad he wasn’t on it. He watched a little basketball float by.
“You may be asked for security information,” the recorded cell phone company voice stated as the writer waited for a human being.
“Shit,” he thought, “what does that mean?” Well, they couldn’t read his mind, could they?
At that instant he was disconnected.
“This call may be monitored or recorded,” the recorded person said. “How reassuring,” the writer thought.
With that he rode as fast as he could to the War Memorial, on Mall B, two blocks from the lake. In books they call it War Memorial Fountain Plaza, but the writer had never heard anyone call it that. He called it the Veterans Memorial.
But he decided to stop across the plaza to the statue of Lincoln beside the board of education.
“Lincoln” she said in a sweet Texas accent, Carolyn told about her song, “Captain, My Captain,” at Town Hall in New York City. The writer wasn’t at the concert but he still has the album and listens to it.
Lincoln walked forth, toward the War Memorial. His expression uncertain, a declaration in his left hand, his right palm opens for deliverance.
No speeches, not a sound. Lincoln walks forth to war over the rights of man, people to be correct. Now presidents, soldiers made of stone, metal, granite, weathered, discolored, and covered with the soot of man.
Lincoln looked straight at the tall statue, a hundred feet or more, high, of the naked warier reaching for eternal peace.
The writer never remembers the verse from Palms, exactly. It’s about seeing the light, something like that. The monument made of nickels, Jefferson, from kids in Cleveland, spearheaded by press, shaped by Marshal Frederick, surrounded by a bronze plated wall – named of the dead, World War II and Korea. Vietnam left on the Internet, wishing the fountain of eternal life would burst, rise again, and touch the sky.
The writer grew tried. His mind drifted, remembering early morning of his birthday. He turned the switch on his hand tuned radio. In an instant, he got a clear, strong signal – the Raccoon Festival and Allison standing there in the mid day heat, champion of the fiddle at 16, and the cutest, nicest girl he’d met. He forgot his marriage, wanted nothing but bluegrass, wondering if she’s 18. He settled for classical Canada CBC. The old signal evaporated the way it came.
It was music to his hears, but nothing like the sound he created in his mind. That’s still his invention.
His invention copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
by Mike Marcellino
Another chapter, Life stories series
Many days had come and gone in the writer’s life. Today, he sat down by the river to write, not sure what it would be about but had some ideas.
Sound.
He had thought about writing about sound, or soundless to be exact. Life without sound. What that would be about. Frightening, at first thought. Fortunately the writer had an answer to that dilemma – invent it. Invent sound, like the light bulb or electricity, like Edison or Franklin.
After all, it was, or is his birthday. “You’re forty-four,” said Harry already working on his first bike, wearing a Mexican bandana, but the bike shop owner was Jewish, at least he used to be with some Jewish cult, but I always forget the name. “I was Acidic,” he announces every few days. I thought, “Whatever that means.”
“Mathematics, music and the brain. What a threesome,” the writer thought.
He’d invent sound in his mind.
Things are better this morning on the Cuyahoga. Just one plastic bottle floated by. “Find the owner,” he ordered. The OD bridge is open to bikes, but not cars. “How perfect.” he said to himself.
He listened to the clanging bell. A boat, maybe. Yes, a boat. A loud whistle followed but nothing ever came round the bend. Slowly the draw bridge rose. Workmen were fixing it.
In his mind, he missed the boat, a thing he feared, missing jump off time. That’s a mission of no return.
But, the writer remembered – he had not missed a thing. It’s his birthday. He invented sound on his birthday.
He watched a train on a distant hillside, glad he wasn’t on it. He watched a little basketball float by.
“You may be asked for security information,” the recorded cell phone company voice stated as the writer waited for a human being.
“Shit,” he thought, “what does that mean?” Well, they couldn’t read his mind, could they?
At that instant he was disconnected.
“This call may be monitored or recorded,” the recorded person said. “How reassuring,” the writer thought.
With that he rode as fast as he could to the War Memorial, on Mall B, two blocks from the lake. In books they call it War Memorial Fountain Plaza, but the writer had never heard anyone call it that. He called it the Veterans Memorial.
But he decided to stop across the plaza to the statue of Lincoln beside the board of education.
“Lincoln” she said in a sweet Texas accent, Carolyn told about her song, “Captain, My Captain,” at Town Hall in New York City. The writer wasn’t at the concert but he still has the album and listens to it.
Lincoln walked forth, toward the War Memorial. His expression uncertain, a declaration in his left hand, his right palm opens for deliverance.
No speeches, not a sound. Lincoln walks forth to war over the rights of man, people to be correct. Now presidents, soldiers made of stone, metal, granite, weathered, discolored, and covered with the soot of man.
Lincoln looked straight at the tall statue, a hundred feet or more, high, of the naked warier reaching for eternal peace.
The writer never remembers the verse from Palms, exactly. It’s about seeing the light, something like that. The monument made of nickels, Jefferson, from kids in Cleveland, spearheaded by press, shaped by Marshal Frederick, surrounded by a bronze plated wall – named of the dead, World War II and Korea. Vietnam left on the Internet, wishing the fountain of eternal life would burst, rise again, and touch the sky.
The writer grew tried. His mind drifted, remembering early morning of his birthday. He turned the switch on his hand tuned radio. In an instant, he got a clear, strong signal – the Raccoon Festival and Allison standing there in the mid day heat, champion of the fiddle at 16, and the cutest, nicest girl he’d met. He forgot his marriage, wanted nothing but bluegrass, wondering if she’s 18. He settled for classical Canada CBC. The old signal evaporated the way it came.
It was music to his hears, but nothing like the sound he created in his mind. That’s still his invention.
His invention copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Life stories series: Saratoga r&r
Saratoga r&r
by Mike Marcellino
Day No. 7 of a series, ‘Life stories’
He loved the smell of the track, his first whiff as he neared on his bike. The writer’s first thought was uncle Buddy, lying there dead in the Jamaica cemetery, blocks away from the track where he rode winners without a whip. Now Lavelle 'Buddy' Ensor lives in a touch screen video inside the National Horse Racing Hall of Fame, a kind a new red brick building, across from Saratoga, one of the oldest and pretties tracks in America. Buddy rode thoroughbreds like Exterminator. He won millions of dollars in the years before and during the Great Depression. He died without a penny, but he threw great parties after a big stake's win and invited all of Baltimore.
Inside the gate he swung his bike over to the rusting silver chain link fence that kept him off the dirt. The track, fittingly across the street from a barren shopping mall dotted with higher weeds, had seen it’s better days but jockeys still put on their silks and roses walked along alone tied up to a training wheel. He would have taken that lone mare for a ride if he thought he could get away from it.
He could have been a jockey, still could if he could sweat and starve his way to lose 10 pounds to get down to 114, the top weight. One of the jockeys at the cheap Ohio track, 10 miles southeast of Lake Erie in a town called Northfield, namesake of the deserted mall, told the writer there’s no age limit.
He daydreamed, made up headlines in the Times -
Michael Ensor navigates Crapshootin $5000 Charles Town claimer win
Buddy’s great grand guides Easy Does It's maiden special weight romp by six
“What If?" "Great name for a horse." he figured.
Strange things happened, especially lately.
He knew he could do it, with practice. He felt like a bird when he lifted himself off the seat of his bike, and guided, glided easily. Feet on the peddles, it could be a dawn morning work.
Next month, the writer would find out if he is his father’s son and his great uncles nephew or not. An ex-paratrooper, Gary, picked out a horse for him to ride at his Texas ranch next month.
His daydreams reminded him of the night before, or the night before that, when white birds called to him, raced across the night sky, crossing just under a near full moon that looked like the sun. The next day he swore those birds had turned brown, but not black.
“I was born at the race track,” the writer leaned down and told the girl jockey in her silks and cap, waiting for her next mount.
“Well, at least I must’ve been conceived at the track.’ he clarified. She was the prettiest jockey he’d ever seen, always wearing baby blue and white.
The dirt of the track gave him chills. The infield gave him peace.
He was at home at race tracks - Santa Anita, Gulfstream, Saratoga, Pimlico, Sunland, outside El Paso, it didn’t matter where.
Saratoga R & R, copyright by Mike Marcellino, Life stories, seven in a series 2009
by Mike Marcellino
Day No. 7 of a series, ‘Life stories’
He loved the smell of the track, his first whiff as he neared on his bike. The writer’s first thought was uncle Buddy, lying there dead in the Jamaica cemetery, blocks away from the track where he rode winners without a whip. Now Lavelle 'Buddy' Ensor lives in a touch screen video inside the National Horse Racing Hall of Fame, a kind a new red brick building, across from Saratoga, one of the oldest and pretties tracks in America. Buddy rode thoroughbreds like Exterminator. He won millions of dollars in the years before and during the Great Depression. He died without a penny, but he threw great parties after a big stake's win and invited all of Baltimore.
Inside the gate he swung his bike over to the rusting silver chain link fence that kept him off the dirt. The track, fittingly across the street from a barren shopping mall dotted with higher weeds, had seen it’s better days but jockeys still put on their silks and roses walked along alone tied up to a training wheel. He would have taken that lone mare for a ride if he thought he could get away from it.
He could have been a jockey, still could if he could sweat and starve his way to lose 10 pounds to get down to 114, the top weight. One of the jockeys at the cheap Ohio track, 10 miles southeast of Lake Erie in a town called Northfield, namesake of the deserted mall, told the writer there’s no age limit.
He daydreamed, made up headlines in the Times -
Michael Ensor navigates Crapshootin $5000 Charles Town claimer win
Buddy’s great grand guides Easy Does It's maiden special weight romp by six
“What If?" "Great name for a horse." he figured.
Strange things happened, especially lately.
He knew he could do it, with practice. He felt like a bird when he lifted himself off the seat of his bike, and guided, glided easily. Feet on the peddles, it could be a dawn morning work.
Next month, the writer would find out if he is his father’s son and his great uncles nephew or not. An ex-paratrooper, Gary, picked out a horse for him to ride at his Texas ranch next month.
His daydreams reminded him of the night before, or the night before that, when white birds called to him, raced across the night sky, crossing just under a near full moon that looked like the sun. The next day he swore those birds had turned brown, but not black.
“I was born at the race track,” the writer leaned down and told the girl jockey in her silks and cap, waiting for her next mount.
“Well, at least I must’ve been conceived at the track.’ he clarified. She was the prettiest jockey he’d ever seen, always wearing baby blue and white.
The dirt of the track gave him chills. The infield gave him peace.
He was at home at race tracks - Santa Anita, Gulfstream, Saratoga, Pimlico, Sunland, outside El Paso, it didn’t matter where.
Saratoga R & R, copyright by Mike Marcellino, Life stories, seven in a series 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Once and for all, a soldier's song
'My girls' photo by Mike Marcellino, South Vietnam, 1967-68
'Search and destroy' photo by Mike Marcellino, 1967-68
We should ask ourselves -
'Why do we not bring an end to all this unnecessary slaughter and suffering in America and our world?'
Once and for all
a soldier's song
by mike marcellino
No more ‘thank you’s,
No more memorial days,
No more salutes,
No more parades,
No more, if you please,
Unless and until,
America gets it right,
soldiers' rights.
Our nation’s third century
of GIs fighting, dying,
sticking their necks out for us,
our way of life,
taking a hit, covering lethal charges,
save a brother’s life.
Too many body bag houses,
soldiers' homes for that the ones never coming back.
Too many wounds, terrible prices.
Too many in prison, and somehow locked up.
Too many in body, not spirit. Once 'n for all, get it right.
Stop starting wars for no reason,
by bad intent or the gravest mistake.
Man, like don't tell us to ‘take the hill’ when its suicide, same bloody ground we took the other day.
Starters, deciders, you go fight.
Never again, send soldiers into battle, to fight,
lie wounded, coming home in disbelief, with wounds no eye can see.
Why mister presidents, congresspeople did you authorize benefits, a GI Bill, to 9 million Vietnam veterans with an expiration date?
Once 'n for all,
America, do your duty.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2009, Once and for all, a soldier's song. Mike served in the United States Army as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the Vietnam War.
If you would like to listen to his recorded songs go to Split Pea/ce, www.myspace.com/splitpeace. More of his writing can be found on his Blog, Notebookwriter on Myspace as well as his Networked Blog, www.notebookwriter.blotspot.com
Mike served as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the United States Army with II Field Force in the Vietnam War.
Memorial Days are rememered each day in the lives of those who lost loved ones, as well as for those whose loved ones were maimed or wounded, physically, emotionally or mentally, in that terrible war, both Americans, Vietnamese and people from other nations.
The Vietnam War remains the nation's longest, from 1963 to 1973, though it goes beyond that. It appears that the various wars in the Middle East, somewhat different, but all related, have already broken that record.
The Vietnam War left in its wake, more than 58,000 American troops dead, hundreds of thousands wounded, hundreds of thousands imprisioned, hundreds of thousands still homelesss. Countless millions of people were killed and wounded in the Vietnam War, thousands left missing, not counting the killing fields of Cambodia and the undeclared war in Laos.
We should ask ourselves -
'When will we bring an end to all this unnecessary slaughter and suffering in America and our world?'
Writings and photos copyright by mke marcellino 2009
To listen to mike's lyrical Americana pop poetry song recordings -
www.myspace.com/splitpeace
Question for mike try mike marcellino on Facebook
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
dylan and baez poems
i think that was dylan
by Mike Marcellino
i think that was dylan
i think that was dylan,
walkin down 42nd street
girl in his arm
right in the middle of the slushy road,
right pretty too,
comin right at me,
so i ducked
down into the
alley
found sally
and wrote this piece
"i didn't see you there,"
- went something like that
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street
trouble was the cold,
blinded me,
so i parked my car,
a cutlass i believe,
recklessly
at the first illegal spot i could find
went up to the bar
"Irish whiskey,"
i said that,
it must ta been in '65
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street,
go ask Sally.
i think that was dylan copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
i knew Joan Baez
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007
i think that was dylan & i knew joan baez copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007, 2008 & 2009
by Mike Marcellino
i think that was dylan
i think that was dylan,
walkin down 42nd street
girl in his arm
right in the middle of the slushy road,
right pretty too,
comin right at me,
so i ducked
down into the
alley
found sally
and wrote this piece
"i didn't see you there,"
- went something like that
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street
trouble was the cold,
blinded me,
so i parked my car,
a cutlass i believe,
recklessly
at the first illegal spot i could find
went up to the bar
"Irish whiskey,"
i said that,
it must ta been in '65
i think that was dylan
walkin down 42nd street,
go ask Sally.
i think that was dylan copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
i knew Joan Baez
i knew joan baez
joan baez.
i knew she would
pick
this
one,
her little sister.
joan baez
i knew she would
pick
this one.
she had a choice -
barbwire
or
bobbing 155 mm shell casing
on the Oriental River,
no number
rung sat zone
south, southeast of Saigon
the delta hell on earth,
special forces
say.
i knew joan baez
joan baez,
i knew she would pick this one,
like her little sister -
joan baez,
i knew joan baez.
i knew she would pick this one
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007
i think that was dylan & i knew joan baez copyright by Mike Marcellino 2007, 2008 & 2009
Life stories series: A scotter named lucky
A scooter named lucky
By Mike Marcellino
The prose daily volume 1
Life stories Days 3, 4 and 5 June 2009
The writer had lost track of the days. He just knew he had passed through days 3, 4 and 5.
He had a record.
Monday night he took off on his classic Japanese model to the drug store. Well, they really aren’t drug stores anymore. No new one he’d ever seen had a soda fountain.
He went to the drug store for Snickers, his favorite candy bar. Hoped they were on sale. The drug store was only a short distance, but he still had to ask for directions. His post traumatic delayed directional disorder was worse at night.
The Snickers bar was 89 cents. Out the door, he unlocked his classic Japanese model built like a tank. As he waited for the light to change, a fire truck came screaming by, red and white neon bubble flashing. The hook and ladder pulled into the other new drug store across the street.
“A drug store on every corner, a chicken in every pot,” he thought. “Why is that?”
He swung his leg over the cross bar, peddled slowly across the intersection. He had a green light. On his back he carried an Indian army surplus pack and in his left hand held a plastic thrift store bag containing a new pair of kaki shorts he got for six bucks and an army green shirt, Indian too, less than two bucks from the thrift store, a non-profit the black woman clerk said was owned by Jews.
Almost midway inside the cross walk, a pickup truck whizzed by, a near miss. Then suddenly out of nowhere he heard the winding motor of a scooter looking him straight in the eyes.
Smack, he got hit head on, the writer, the classic Japanese, another white guy and scooter all went sprawling onto the pavement.
Cars sped by. As the writer got up, the scooter guy, shaken, asked, “Are you ok? Are you ok?”
Then a black guy driving by sticks his head out the window, “I’m gonna waste you.”
The writer wondered, “Which driver is he talking about?” He did have a green light. .
His left thumb tingled a bit, that was it.
The writer punched in the hack’s name and phone number and rode off.
His bike came through without a scratch, leaving its mark on the front fender of a coffee cream scooter named “Lucky.”
(To be continued.}
A scooter named lucky, Life stories, Days 3, 4 & 5, Copyright by Mike Marcellino & Mike Marcellino Communications, 2009
By Mike Marcellino
The prose daily volume 1
Life stories Days 3, 4 and 5 June 2009
The writer had lost track of the days. He just knew he had passed through days 3, 4 and 5.
He had a record.
Monday night he took off on his classic Japanese model to the drug store. Well, they really aren’t drug stores anymore. No new one he’d ever seen had a soda fountain.
He went to the drug store for Snickers, his favorite candy bar. Hoped they were on sale. The drug store was only a short distance, but he still had to ask for directions. His post traumatic delayed directional disorder was worse at night.
The Snickers bar was 89 cents. Out the door, he unlocked his classic Japanese model built like a tank. As he waited for the light to change, a fire truck came screaming by, red and white neon bubble flashing. The hook and ladder pulled into the other new drug store across the street.
“A drug store on every corner, a chicken in every pot,” he thought. “Why is that?”
He swung his leg over the cross bar, peddled slowly across the intersection. He had a green light. On his back he carried an Indian army surplus pack and in his left hand held a plastic thrift store bag containing a new pair of kaki shorts he got for six bucks and an army green shirt, Indian too, less than two bucks from the thrift store, a non-profit the black woman clerk said was owned by Jews.
Almost midway inside the cross walk, a pickup truck whizzed by, a near miss. Then suddenly out of nowhere he heard the winding motor of a scooter looking him straight in the eyes.
Smack, he got hit head on, the writer, the classic Japanese, another white guy and scooter all went sprawling onto the pavement.
Cars sped by. As the writer got up, the scooter guy, shaken, asked, “Are you ok? Are you ok?”
Then a black guy driving by sticks his head out the window, “I’m gonna waste you.”
The writer wondered, “Which driver is he talking about?” He did have a green light. .
His left thumb tingled a bit, that was it.
The writer punched in the hack’s name and phone number and rode off.
His bike came through without a scratch, leaving its mark on the front fender of a coffee cream scooter named “Lucky.”
(To be continued.}
A scooter named lucky, Life stories, Days 3, 4 & 5, Copyright by Mike Marcellino & Mike Marcellino Communications, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Life stories series: Chased clouds, empty sky
Chased clouds, empty sky
By Mike Marcellino
The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 2, May 29, 2009
Two of a series
“Where to begin start? “he wondered.
“Start with radio, NPR,” as he had a portable, hand operated Shack radio. He began listening to public radio, riding his classic Japanese model bike to downtown Cleveland.
The writer was overwhelmed again. It was only the day after yesterday, the day before today. He forgot allergy pills, had stupidly got two plastic containers of conditioner at the dollar store, no shampoo. Yes, the conditioners were each a dollar.
His ability to scan labels - gone bad to worse, with or without glasses. No matter, 88 cent dime store specks, or the VA specials. He had some incurable eye condition he could have inherited from his real father, the assistant starter.
“The good news, the VA said, “double cornea transplants.”
A few years later, a really nice guy riding the Detroit bus asked the writer,” Are you on the transplant list?”
“That’s a really good question,” the writer thought to himself,”
“No. I’m not,” he answered.
“My first pair of VA glasses, gunmetal frames, high fashion,” he explained. “The top right rim split clean. “They must have been pretty thin,” he reasoned.
“Second pair, lightweights, rimless bottoms, fell apart right away, looked like silly putty,
Now that’s pretty funny if you need glasses just for show,” the writer said, wondering how he was going to write without eyesight.
“Blind people figured a way,” he knew that.
At the veterans’ medical center the writer handed the two broken glasses to the young man in the office. He asked him for a card but he didn’t have them. He said he was a “patient representative.” The writer, ex- orderly, in six months learned about health care. He was the only male on a surgical ward in Lakewood Hospital.
“These glasses are defective, contractors are ripping me and the VA off,” the writer said in consternation. “Investigate these glasses and get back to me, ok?” Without a word, he quietly put them away in a desk drawer.
Weeks later, the writer returned to the VA for another reason. He walked into the office of the patient representative and asked, “Did you look into my glasses?”
“No,” he responded, quietly and looking straight at me without another word, handed over two pair of broken glasses wrapped up in white paper and a red rubber band.
On the road, the writer rode toward the breaks in the puffy sky. He stopped on the near side bank of the river, at a drawbridge over the flats and tracks.
Junk floated on the Cuyahoga, dozens, on the layers of muck, discarded, mostly plastic bottles, all sizes, Styrofoam cups, faint, yellow striped off white rubber ball and a wooden desk drawer. Gradually, the mess on the water drifted, skating upstream.
“Fowl birds have more sense than to light on this water,” he thought. Then a goofy goose honked by.
The Cuyahoga, “crooked river,” as natives called it, was very celebrated. In the 1970s, the river’s ‘water’ caught fire. Another time, ex-mayor Ralph Perk’s set his hair on fire with a blowtorch. He aim narrowly missed the ceremonial steel ribbon. Both made world news.
The sun warmed the writer’s right shoulder. He felt it through an old green army shirt, probably Cuban. He’d done chores already – GI, no, err, rock star shower, brushed his teeth, tossed out pieces of his paper collection.
“Yikes,” he said to himself. “A call in public radio show about bikes – ageless, timeless commentators talking about ageless, timeless peddle power transportation. Right away he called the only station number on his cell phone. Turned out to be the wrong FM station but someone answered and he told him what he had to say about bikes anyway.
“We’re light years away from being ‘bike friendly,’” he told the guy at the WRONG station. “I know without doubt, this revelation won’t ever come to the earth’s most powerful nation. After all,” his thinking continued, “People in most of America’s towns, big and small, these days exist without a bus or train, intra or inner city and a third of our workers get to work carless.”
The writer remembered when he was in Saigon, it was 1968, a now and then Chinese sedan and a few motor scooters, were hopelessly outnumbered, surrounded by bikes and tricycles, aka rickshaws.
A commentator told about an LA doctor prescribing biking for a patient. “It must be a joke,” she chuckled nervously.
“Wait, don’t you know the cost of treating overweight Americans run in the trillions, and millions are dying needlessly.” he wanted to ask her.
“Where to begin,” he wondered again.
“Bikes as a means of transportation are ethic. It’s the economy stupid, if not for pleasure, adventure.
It’s a good thing for us and our planet,” he cried, into a northwest headwind.
“Is anybody listening? They still don’t get it. Isn’t that politically correct?”
“How much money does the government have for bicycles?” a caller asked.
“We have no specific sum,” a planner responded.
Then a downtown commuter called, asking about showers.
“You should live in Tulsa,” the writer could a told him.
Luckily, the writer was saved by the day. The sun chased the clouds, emptied the blue sky.
“Another day at the office,” the writer relented, landing safely again in Phoenix.
He took his usual break before starting work, reached for a wad of Gambler tobacco. A black and white portrait of a smoking cowboy stamped on the pouch, half his face in shadow, he noticed.
The writer thought, “In God we trust” for some reason.
Back in the executives’ wash room, he looked in the mirror. His hair was out of control, without shampoo for days. Reminded him of this couple he knew won a Toronto twist contest, last standing on the cream & black checkered dance floor.
“Call on John Travolta. File a class action,” he suggested.
Chased clouds, empty sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 2, May 29, 2009
Two of a series
“Where to begin start? “he wondered.
“Start with radio, NPR,” as he had a portable, hand operated Shack radio. He began listening to public radio, riding his classic Japanese model bike to downtown Cleveland.
The writer was overwhelmed again. It was only the day after yesterday, the day before today. He forgot allergy pills, had stupidly got two plastic containers of conditioner at the dollar store, no shampoo. Yes, the conditioners were each a dollar.
His ability to scan labels - gone bad to worse, with or without glasses. No matter, 88 cent dime store specks, or the VA specials. He had some incurable eye condition he could have inherited from his real father, the assistant starter.
“The good news, the VA said, “double cornea transplants.”
A few years later, a really nice guy riding the Detroit bus asked the writer,” Are you on the transplant list?”
“That’s a really good question,” the writer thought to himself,”
“No. I’m not,” he answered.
“My first pair of VA glasses, gunmetal frames, high fashion,” he explained. “The top right rim split clean. “They must have been pretty thin,” he reasoned.
“Second pair, lightweights, rimless bottoms, fell apart right away, looked like silly putty,
Now that’s pretty funny if you need glasses just for show,” the writer said, wondering how he was going to write without eyesight.
“Blind people figured a way,” he knew that.
At the veterans’ medical center the writer handed the two broken glasses to the young man in the office. He asked him for a card but he didn’t have them. He said he was a “patient representative.” The writer, ex- orderly, in six months learned about health care. He was the only male on a surgical ward in Lakewood Hospital.
“These glasses are defective, contractors are ripping me and the VA off,” the writer said in consternation. “Investigate these glasses and get back to me, ok?” Without a word, he quietly put them away in a desk drawer.
Weeks later, the writer returned to the VA for another reason. He walked into the office of the patient representative and asked, “Did you look into my glasses?”
“No,” he responded, quietly and looking straight at me without another word, handed over two pair of broken glasses wrapped up in white paper and a red rubber band.
On the road, the writer rode toward the breaks in the puffy sky. He stopped on the near side bank of the river, at a drawbridge over the flats and tracks.
Junk floated on the Cuyahoga, dozens, on the layers of muck, discarded, mostly plastic bottles, all sizes, Styrofoam cups, faint, yellow striped off white rubber ball and a wooden desk drawer. Gradually, the mess on the water drifted, skating upstream.
“Fowl birds have more sense than to light on this water,” he thought. Then a goofy goose honked by.
The Cuyahoga, “crooked river,” as natives called it, was very celebrated. In the 1970s, the river’s ‘water’ caught fire. Another time, ex-mayor Ralph Perk’s set his hair on fire with a blowtorch. He aim narrowly missed the ceremonial steel ribbon. Both made world news.
The sun warmed the writer’s right shoulder. He felt it through an old green army shirt, probably Cuban. He’d done chores already – GI, no, err, rock star shower, brushed his teeth, tossed out pieces of his paper collection.
“Yikes,” he said to himself. “A call in public radio show about bikes – ageless, timeless commentators talking about ageless, timeless peddle power transportation. Right away he called the only station number on his cell phone. Turned out to be the wrong FM station but someone answered and he told him what he had to say about bikes anyway.
“We’re light years away from being ‘bike friendly,’” he told the guy at the WRONG station. “I know without doubt, this revelation won’t ever come to the earth’s most powerful nation. After all,” his thinking continued, “People in most of America’s towns, big and small, these days exist without a bus or train, intra or inner city and a third of our workers get to work carless.”
The writer remembered when he was in Saigon, it was 1968, a now and then Chinese sedan and a few motor scooters, were hopelessly outnumbered, surrounded by bikes and tricycles, aka rickshaws.
A commentator told about an LA doctor prescribing biking for a patient. “It must be a joke,” she chuckled nervously.
“Wait, don’t you know the cost of treating overweight Americans run in the trillions, and millions are dying needlessly.” he wanted to ask her.
“Where to begin,” he wondered again.
“Bikes as a means of transportation are ethic. It’s the economy stupid, if not for pleasure, adventure.
It’s a good thing for us and our planet,” he cried, into a northwest headwind.
“Is anybody listening? They still don’t get it. Isn’t that politically correct?”
“How much money does the government have for bicycles?” a caller asked.
“We have no specific sum,” a planner responded.
Then a downtown commuter called, asking about showers.
“You should live in Tulsa,” the writer could a told him.
Luckily, the writer was saved by the day. The sun chased the clouds, emptied the blue sky.
“Another day at the office,” the writer relented, landing safely again in Phoenix.
He took his usual break before starting work, reached for a wad of Gambler tobacco. A black and white portrait of a smoking cowboy stamped on the pouch, half his face in shadow, he noticed.
The writer thought, “In God we trust” for some reason.
Back in the executives’ wash room, he looked in the mirror. His hair was out of control, without shampoo for days. Reminded him of this couple he knew won a Toronto twist contest, last standing on the cream & black checkered dance floor.
“Call on John Travolta. File a class action,” he suggested.
Chased clouds, empty sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Life stories series: No outside signal
Art work by Ashley Pastore, Copyright 2009No outside signal
Chapter 1
By Mike Marcellino
The Prose Daily Volume 1, Issue 1, First Edition, May 28, 2009
He woke up, not knowing how, or why, it happened. He lived with bikes in absolute mellow chaos; he was surrounded in an old dirty red brick building on West 3rd Street, just up the hill from the Flats. Made the French roast too strong, put in some 2 percent. Taking a shower should be pretty simple, but this day that is not the case. You see, the cold water has no knob, to turn it. Bike wizard, Harry, a short balding guy who says he’s Jewish, left a big wrench, that didn’t work for me the first time, letting out cold water; no matter, Cleveland water doesn’t read the bill anyway.
Today the writer used his now rusty small wrench without a problem. Out the door he goes, flying down the steep hill past the vacant run down café. Swear a cop parked his souped up Ford out front.
His first destination, carrying his unidentified army surplus pack, a laptop on his back, his hideaway of broken glass and old tires, nasty grass. He sat down on the edge of concrete, abutment to a bridge too far, a bridge to nowhere, but a clump of green hedged mixed with concrete across the chasm. The writer took a smoke, a mix of menthol Kite Turkish tobacco and what ever happened to be dropped in by a stranger.
Back on the road, he crossed the old, once mighty city’s industrial heart, The Flats. Peddling easily on his classic Japanese, he felt comfort in the passing trucks, 16 wheelers, and haulers in oil, asphalt and cement for starters. St. Mary’s the latter, Universal Oil the former.
Slipped quickly past the now quiet amphitheatre, where was it “Keith” Michaels, a once hot lead singer with Poison, turned cowboy complete with long gold hair and a matching straw hat? Got in Sunday for a dollar.
All roads lead to rock and roll in Cleveland, the edifice on the lake. But in Tower City, the old, once golden train station, the writer found solace – free rock and roll music piped in by Bose, what class, Forest City!
The Tower, the writer had once encountered years ago, on a strange day, probably running Veterans for Clinton from his hotel bedroom, fifty some yellow stickums, all with notations, the meet up and van caravan, linking up the Arkansas boys, Army, Marines and all, and some curbside revolt of Vietnam War combat veterans. Though he remembers well this spiritual occasion, suffice to say now, he called the place, “Crystal City,” after a place across the Potomac from DC.
The writer made it downtown, a bee line, pretend courier, carrying a top secret, highly classified message to Phoenix Coffee, the Cleveland + Plus version in the dim sun shadows below little, bland brick Key tower. Inside, outside no signal, he tapped at his laptop, “What to do next? I don’t have a clue, there are too many choices. But the once that suits him best is to run away.
Then he remembered, he forgot about the OD Bridge across the Cuyahoga to the East Side, raccoon suddenly shoot bike right into a city cave, he for fortune he entered into a dark or darker tunnel, the perfect flash back, waiting for the Americal and his next mission, still looking for an outside signal. Having nothing better to do, except hit the lake till his hat floats. Fuck, then he remembered, “Shit, there’s no surf in Cleveland, just tons of pollution.”
He got the key to the executive bathroom, a heavy ice cream scooper, walked though a maze of two glass doors, walls all the same fucking grey. He stopped in his tracks, a neon EXIT and that dreaded alarm warning. Open the door and all hell breaks lose, but he did it. The lock gave him trouble, on the men’s room door, adorn with a lifeless black suited symbol.
“It would help if I could see it,” he thought.
The writer was actually able to pass urine, aka, take a leak, no thanks to his prostate, bladder or kidneys.
“Free at last, free at last, thank God, free at last,” that pause in his life brought on his favorite quote.
“Ditto, Martin”
He could easily drift off into the Kennedy and King assassinations and the lack of real investigation.
“Better yet, ‘go find a guitar, play harmonica, live up to their labels.
Vincent isn't "Short" anymore, still a block south from Lake Erie, the closest to The Theatrial Grill's the Theatric Garage and a Holiday Inn Hotels and Express all weather sign's on the door of the old, historic National City Bank building.
It stopped raining. The daily commute underway in force.
"No outside signal," Chapter 1, The Daily Prose, Volume 1, Issue 1, First Edition, Copyright May 28, 2009 by Mike Marcellino, aka, Mike Marcellino, a sole proprietership in the state of Ohio, " Flash True Fiction" and "True Flash Fiction" and "True Fiction." all Copyright Mike Marcellino, aka Mike Marcellino Communications, May 28, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Once and for all
a soldier's song, unfinished
Story and photos by mike marcellino
No more ‘thank you’s,
No more memorial days,
No more salutes,
No more parades,
No more, if you please,
unless and until,
America gets it right,
soldiers' rights.
Our nation’s third century
Of GIs fighting, dying,
sticking their necks out for us,
Our way of life,
taking a hit, covering lethal charges,
save a brother’s life.
Too many body bag houses,
soldiers' homes for that the ones never coming back.
Too many wounds, terrible prices.
Too many in prison, and somehow locked up.
Too many in bodies, not spirits. Once 'n for all, get it right.
Stop starting wars for no reason,
by bad intent or the gravest mistake.
Man, like don't tell us to ‘take the hill’ when its suicide, same bloody ground we took the other day.
Starters, deciders, go fight.
Never again, send soldiers into battle, to fight,
lie wounded, coming home in disbelief, with wounds no eye can see.
Once 'n for all,
America, do your duty.
Copyright Mike Marcellino, 2009, Once and for all, a soldier's song, unfinished. Mike served in the United States Army as a combat correspondent and photojournalist in the Vietnam War. If you would like to listen to his recorded songs go to Split Pea/ce, www.myspace.com/splitpeace. More of his writing can be found on his Blog, Notebookwriter on Myspace as well as his Networked Blog, www.notebookwriter.blotspot.com
Monday, May 18, 2009
Oklahoma spell, a poem
Oklahoma spell
By Mike Marcellino
With help,
And thanks to Duncan and Bubba
That spell fell on me
In Oklahoma
Tuesday.
Clouds filled with mist
Ran through
Tops of Tulsa towers
Only interrupted
By steady rains,
Trapped,
Lost and confused
In Oklahoma,
But twenty some miles
Away from the home
Of Woody the road man,
Touching souls
Caught in the Great Depression
Being replayed in the muck
of the Twenty First Century.
Outside gales of Okie, forty knots
Or more, landlocked,
Finally died down to a soft breeze
Short lived,
Hidden behind our minds,
fearing
fickle Sooner winds
assaulting north an east
Oklahoma
Sure to return
Cast away from the Gulf and Alberta.
Leaving the Okla homeless
Outta touch
Outta intelligence
Outta certain
Outta cell phone minutes,
in Indian Territory
carved outta
unwanted panhandle parts a Texas
Outta means
a communication.
Way past expiration,
minutes left in Oklahoma.
Copyright Mike Marcellino Spell Oklahoma 2009rain
By Mike Marcellino
With help,
And thanks to Duncan and Bubba
That spell fell on me
In Oklahoma
Tuesday.
Clouds filled with mist
Ran through
Tops of Tulsa towers
Only interrupted
By steady rains,
Trapped,
Lost and confused
In Oklahoma,
But twenty some miles
Away from the home
Of Woody the road man,
Touching souls
Caught in the Great Depression
Being replayed in the muck
of the Twenty First Century.
Outside gales of Okie, forty knots
Or more, landlocked,
Finally died down to a soft breeze
Short lived,
Hidden behind our minds,
fearing
fickle Sooner winds
assaulting north an east
Oklahoma
Sure to return
Cast away from the Gulf and Alberta.
Leaving the Okla homeless
Outta touch
Outta intelligence
Outta certain
Outta cell phone minutes,
in Indian Territory
carved outta
unwanted panhandle parts a Texas
Outta means
a communication.
Way past expiration,
minutes left in Oklahoma.
Copyright Mike Marcellino Spell Oklahoma 2009rain
Monday, May 4, 2009
Only broken text:a poem
Only broken text
Lost lake to shore transmissions.
by Mike Marcellino
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lake waters lap
curl on rock shores -
text a la Erie.
Thoughts rush,
tangled,
only broken by
faint far away whistles,
trains, an other
muffled sounds, like
a motorboat skims, east
across the waters
of the lake called Erie
wet carpet of molten silver
tinted in placid black.
On the horizon
ozone circle,
light brown
crescent clouds,
copper-orange
with gold lace -
A single engine plane
sputters
east across the early morning blue sky,
instantly broken
by a dog's bark.
A single gull
floats
on silver blue waters,
the sight of flight
amazing,
flapping,
gliding
slowly across the waters
of the lake called Erie,
encircled,
ringed
covered
by an endless, murky
light brown clouds
hanging
on the horizon,
tinted
contamination orange.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Click
clack
click
text messages
words flashing
to California
from sunup
in northern Ohio.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
No signal
from the waters
of the lake called Erie.
Looking for signs,
signals,
cell systems,
piercing cries from the heavens.
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009 Only broken text: lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lost lake to shore transmissions.
by Mike Marcellino
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Lake waters lap
curl on rock shores -
text a la Erie.
Thoughts rush,
tangled,
only broken by
faint far away whistles,
trains, an other
muffled sounds, like
a motorboat skims, east
across the waters
of the lake called Erie
wet carpet of molten silver
tinted in placid black.
On the horizon
ozone circle,
light brown
crescent clouds,
copper-orange
with gold lace -
A single engine plane
sputters
east across the early morning blue sky,
instantly broken
by a dog's bark.
A single gull
floats
on silver blue waters,
the sight of flight
amazing,
flapping,
gliding
slowly across the waters
of the lake called Erie,
encircled,
ringed
covered
by an endless, murky
light brown clouds
hanging
on the horizon,
tinted
contamination orange.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
Click
clack
click
text messages
words flashing
to California
from sunup
in northern Ohio.
Only broken text,
lost lake to shore transmissions.
No signal
from the waters
of the lake called Erie.
Looking for signs,
signals,
cell systems,
piercing cries from the heavens.
Copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009 Only broken text: lost lake to shore transmissions.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Warmth of the sun, a poem
Warmth of the sun
by Mike Marcellino
When you're
on the ground
looking up
feel
the warmth of the sun
in a clear club sky.
Then,
a cloud appears
floating by
behind
man's monuments
reaching
from the ground
to beyond
the sky.
When you're
on the ground
looking up,
sit and wonder
why
life
is
like
the warmth of the sun
in a clear
blue sky
chirping birds
nearby
hardly visible
to the naked eye
until a single
one flies by.
And you're awakened
in a start
rumble
rumble
red brick
rumble
when you're on the ground
and you're
awakened
in a start
suddenly
again awakened
in a start
grey blue
fast moving clouds
come in
for moments
covering the sun,
blown blown
northwest
chill wind
chill wind
outa
a
clear
blue sky
covering
the warmth of the sun.
By Mike Marcellino, copyright 2009, Warmth of the sun
by Mike Marcellino
When you're
on the ground
looking up
feel
the warmth of the sun
in a clear club sky.
Then,
a cloud appears
floating by
behind
man's monuments
reaching
from the ground
to beyond
the sky.
When you're
on the ground
looking up,
sit and wonder
why
life
is
like
the warmth of the sun
in a clear
blue sky
chirping birds
nearby
hardly visible
to the naked eye
until a single
one flies by.
And you're awakened
in a start
rumble
rumble
red brick
rumble
when you're on the ground
and you're
awakened
in a start
suddenly
again awakened
in a start
grey blue
fast moving clouds
come in
for moments
covering the sun,
blown blown
northwest
chill wind
chill wind
outa
a
clear
blue sky
covering
the warmth of the sun.
By Mike Marcellino, copyright 2009, Warmth of the sun
Thursday, March 26, 2009
En haut d'Orleans
En haut d'Orléans
Par Mike Marcellino
En haut d'Orléans
Joan,
l'or en argent
fâchée
brille
de loin le chevalier.
Seulement 21.
Comment elle l'a fait ?
Seulement 21.
Les montagnes,
la droite
de Tuscaloosa
en avant
et derrière
un acier empile
un ouest
de Birmingham
de Gadsden,
les coupures,
de soleil d'Alabama
par,
essaie à ,
sur la hausse,
les montagnes qu'un
Alabama
allumant de la
violette
de lilas arbres
verts apercevant,
les lits
de vieux blé bandes
de terre rouillées cultivent.
En haut d'Orléans
conduisant
le nord par
le sud profond
mission de rocher noire.
La princesse
une
orange
de cuivre
d'Alabama
fait une croisière pur,
le marron égale
des cheveux,
directement
comme une dentelle.
La princesse un Alabama de l'espace !
Pendant que
la cerise
fleurit formé comme
un arbre
de Chrysanthème
circulaire
à l'envers,
les vaches se
reposant sur l'herbe,
2 chevaux broutant
Pâle & Roan.
La prise échappée à Brownsville
Stationner,
est dirigé vers
le Terrain De Boules,
la scène de Franklin.
A caché dans
la Caverne de Mammouth
des
Armées de la Reine.
A laissé accumuler
le long
de 31 d'ouest
rapidement
forces de piste de cavaliers
s'est dirigé vers le
croisement
de Rivière d'Ohio
Les forces de cavaliers
s'élevant
contre
les Armées
de la Reine.
En haut d'Orléans, déposer 2009 par Mike Marcellino
Par Mike Marcellino
En haut d'Orléans
Joan,
l'or en argent
fâchée
brille
de loin le chevalier.
Seulement 21.
Comment elle l'a fait ?
Seulement 21.
Les montagnes,
la droite
de Tuscaloosa
en avant
et derrière
un acier empile
un ouest
de Birmingham
de Gadsden,
les coupures,
de soleil d'Alabama
par,
essaie à ,
sur la hausse,
les montagnes qu'un
Alabama
allumant de la
violette
de lilas arbres
verts apercevant,
les lits
de vieux blé bandes
de terre rouillées cultivent.
En haut d'Orléans
conduisant
le nord par
le sud profond
mission de rocher noire.
La princesse
une
orange
de cuivre
d'Alabama
fait une croisière pur,
le marron égale
des cheveux,
directement
comme une dentelle.
La princesse un Alabama de l'espace !
Pendant que
la cerise
fleurit formé comme
un arbre
de Chrysanthème
circulaire
à l'envers,
les vaches se
reposant sur l'herbe,
2 chevaux broutant
Pâle & Roan.
La prise échappée à Brownsville
Stationner,
est dirigé vers
le Terrain De Boules,
la scène de Franklin.
A caché dans
la Caverne de Mammouth
des
Armées de la Reine.
A laissé accumuler
le long
de 31 d'ouest
rapidement
forces de piste de cavaliers
s'est dirigé vers le
croisement
de Rivière d'Ohio
Les forces de cavaliers
s'élevant
contre
les Armées
de la Reine.
En haut d'Orléans, déposer 2009 par Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans, a poem
Up from Orleans
By Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans
Joan
cross
silver
gold
from a
distance
shining knight
Only 21.
How did she do it?
Only 21.
Mountains,
right
of Tuscaloosa
ahead
and
behind
a
steel
stacks
a
Birmingham
west of
Gadsden,
Alabama.
Sun breaks
through,
tries
to,
on the
rise,
mountains
a
Alabama
lighting
lilacs
violet
spotting
evergreens,
beds of
old wheat
rusty
dirt
strips
farm
up from
Orleans
driving
north
through
deep
south
black rock mission.
Princess
of
Alabama
copper
orange
cruising,
pure,
brown
matching
hair,
straight
as a lace.
Princess
of
Alabama
out of
space!
While cherry
blossoms
shaped
like
a
round
Chrysanthemum
trees
upside
down,
cows
resting
on grass,
2 horses grazing
Pale
&
Roan.
Escaped
capture
at Brownsville Station,
headed
for Bowling
Green,
the Franklin
scene,
hid in
Mammouth
Cave
from
the Armies of the Queen.
Ran up
along
31 w
fast track.
Forces
of horsemen
headed
for the
Ohio
River
crossing.
Forces
of horsemen
rising
up
against
the Armies of the Queen.
Up from Orleans, copyright 2009 by Mike Marcellino
By Mike Marcellino
Up from Orleans
Joan
cross
silver
gold
from a
distance
shining knight
Only 21.
How did she do it?
Only 21.
Mountains,
right
of Tuscaloosa
ahead
and
behind
a
steel
stacks
a
Birmingham
west of
Gadsden,
Alabama.
Sun breaks
through,
tries
to,
on the
rise,
mountains
a
Alabama
lighting
lilacs
violet
spotting
evergreens,
beds of
old wheat
rusty
dirt
strips
farm
up from
Orleans
driving
north
through
deep
south
black rock mission.
Princess
of
Alabama
copper
orange
cruising,
pure,
brown
matching
hair,
straight
as a lace.
Princess
of
Alabama
out of
space!
While cherry
blossoms
shaped
like
a
round
Chrysanthemum
trees
upside
down,
cows
resting
on grass,
2 horses grazing
Pale
&
Roan.
Escaped
capture
at Brownsville Station,
headed
for Bowling
Green,
the Franklin
scene,
hid in
Mammouth
Cave
from
the Armies of the Queen.
Ran up
along
31 w
fast track.
Forces
of horsemen
headed
for the
Ohio
River
crossing.
Forces
of horsemen
rising
up
against
the Armies of the Queen.
Up from Orleans, copyright 2009 by Mike Marcellino
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tears again, a poem
Tears again
By Mike Marcellino
Tears again
makin up for lost time
you lose along the way
settle for
artificial ones.
Sometimes life
can be
paralyzing
like being
in or near
a crash,
unless
you’re landing
on the Hudson
off the Brooklyn coast.
We came
from nowhere
piloting a clipper ship
across
endless Alleghenys.
Are we there yet?
Yep.
Snow line lost
to late February rains,
unexpectedly
rollin down Interstate 80
bustin plenty
enroute to
Stacy
Rock
& Buckeroo
playin Texas
raw bar
lower east side,
cutest actors
seen
since Joni & Jim
in the backseat
of a Fairlane
Ford,
baby blue
white top.
Light weight,
skinny,
automatic thing
flattened out at 110.
Under 90
never caught,
no blind spot.
Artificial tears
never show.
Only the real ones grow.
Got hard scrambled
eggs an' pancakes,
biggest ones
ever seen.
Split the scene.
Across the eastern divide
Cleveland appeared -
the far horizon
in van’s mystic
sky.
Real tears,
Song of Banjo Riley
heading for the Gulf
of Mexico
from New York
City.
Song of Banjo Riley by Mike Marcellino Copyright 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Tears again
makin up for lost time
you lose along the way
settle for
artificial ones.
Sometimes life
can be
paralyzing
like being
in or near
a crash,
unless
you’re landing
on the Hudson
off the Brooklyn coast.
We came
from nowhere
piloting a clipper ship
across
endless Alleghenys.
Are we there yet?
Yep.
Snow line lost
to late February rains,
unexpectedly
rollin down Interstate 80
bustin plenty
enroute to
Stacy
Rock
& Buckeroo
playin Texas
raw bar
lower east side,
cutest actors
seen
since Joni & Jim
in the backseat
of a Fairlane
Ford,
baby blue
white top.
Light weight,
skinny,
automatic thing
flattened out at 110.
Under 90
never caught,
no blind spot.
Artificial tears
never show.
Only the real ones grow.
Got hard scrambled
eggs an' pancakes,
biggest ones
ever seen.
Split the scene.
Across the eastern divide
Cleveland appeared -
the far horizon
in van’s mystic
sky.
Real tears,
Song of Banjo Riley
heading for the Gulf
of Mexico
from New York
City.
Song of Banjo Riley by Mike Marcellino Copyright 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Hurricanes of humanity, a poem
 |
| Hurricane Katrina, NOAA Satellite image |
Hurricanes of humanity
By Mike Marcellino
Hurricanes of humanity -
Weathermen called the wind
Katrina,
her blow overwheling
waves
covered New Orleans,
leaving in her wake
a city never the same.
She left them cajuns
reeling,
mumbling 'bout
their old homes
dying for MEMA
cottages
out of reach
south of highway 90
sold ‘em
to contractors
building
casinos for the poor
working
families without homes.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Brass
of Army sergeants
homeless in uniform
swept from the streets,
no need for assessment.
Giv’em an offer they can’t afford -
habitat for five hundred dollars
a month
plus flood insurance
Churches turned some gold to straw,
Parish people say,
wonderin ‘bout their government
before, during an after
nation’s greatest disaster,
when a category 5
hit the Gulf Coast
on that August day.
2005.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Homes not jails
food not bombs
500 city kitchens
cross country and
twenty two to thirty two
percent of our kids -
going to school,
homeless
Arizona to Detroit
Hurricanes of humanity -
subjects of FEMA
from New Orleans
to Brooklyn,
armies on the street
to college.
What went wrong?
they ask.
Not the people?
they say.
Must of been the leaders,
some say.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Bayou grits,
southern accents
let’s see
before, during and after
Katrina.
Try disability,
Hope a leg’s missing,
never mind.
Speakers
in the woods,
tents of seven hundred,
survivers
of the bitter winter
2009.
Hurricanes of humanity -
Like Dorothy
upside down.
Hope for a soft landing,
bed of change,
deportees
from a 20 megaton daydream,
two gallons left
lost out by fifty fifty -
miles
dollars
away
from New Orleans
and Black Bay.
Copyright Hurricanes of humanity by Mike Marcellino 2009.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Dreamed this, a poem
Dreamed this
By Mike Marcellino
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to read it,
add,
subtract
multipy,
only could remember
how to
divide.
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to paint
play
sing
compose
it.
But when i woke
the economist
up
to a certain page,
i thought this
wrote this
Dreamed this.
Dreamed this copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to read it,
add,
subtract
multipy,
only could remember
how to
divide.
Was going to write
this.
Dreamed
i forgot
how
to paint
play
sing
compose
it.
But when i woke
the economist
up
to a certain page,
i thought this
wrote this
Dreamed this.
Dreamed this copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Listen to the radio, a poem
Listen to the radio
By Mike Marcellino
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Sing all together now
her majesty’s request
whirling vinyl
tracks from Singapore
on the magical mystery tour.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Captured in Cambodia,
blown away in the DMZ
going back to Iraq,
Afghanistan,
electric concertina silhouette memories.
Uniforms at a five in the morning wake up call
Denver’s airport high
above the Land of the Free -
Home of bridges falling down.
Home of the brave,
taking shelter
in ravines,
railroad boxcars,
in gas station latrines.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Remember
songs of the day -
Check some boxes,
pop some pills,
get patched up,
go on your way,
live to fight another day.”
Listen to the radio,copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Sing all together now
her majesty’s request
whirling vinyl
tracks from Singapore
on the magical mystery tour.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Captured in Cambodia,
blown away in the DMZ
going back to Iraq,
Afghanistan,
electric concertina silhouette memories.
Uniforms at a five in the morning wake up call
Denver’s airport high
above the Land of the Free -
Home of bridges falling down.
Home of the brave,
taking shelter
in ravines,
railroad boxcars,
in gas station latrines.
Listen to the radio
in no man’s land.
Wait till the music dies.
Remember
songs of the day -
Check some boxes,
pop some pills,
get patched up,
go on your way,
live to fight another day.”
Listen to the radio,copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Lookouts in the sky, a poem
Lookouts in the sky
By Mike Marcellino
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus
slicing up
from Mississippi,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather
painting
a partly sunny Sunday
party on the beach
of Erie in Ohio,
home of American natives
at a meet up,
lookouts of pau waus.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of cirros joins the treck
across
eastern skies,
making the sun
blink
on the heels of blizzards,
turned into dying snowflakes
after their fall
to an unearthly planet
day by day,
endless transformers
bleeding into slushy, muddy
melting piles,
curbside
pool craters.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus,
whipping up from
seas far south,
painting
a party sunny Sunday
on the beach
of West Palm,
home of spinner sharks
at a meet up
feeding frenzy
outside
three-foot blue curls,
ridden by surfers close by,
lookouts in the sky,
gifts of Zeus,
the Greek,
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky,
sudden clouds of puffy nimbus
pockets of rain, maybe snow
ridges in the sky
shut down
the sun’s furnace,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
By Mike Marcellino
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus
slicing up
from Mississippi,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather
painting
a partly sunny Sunday
party on the beach
of Erie in Ohio,
home of American natives
at a meet up,
lookouts of pau waus.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of cirros joins the treck
across
eastern skies,
making the sun
blink
on the heels of blizzards,
turned into dying snowflakes
after their fall
to an unearthly planet
day by day,
endless transformers
bleeding into slushy, muddy
melting piles,
curbside
pool craters.
Lookouts in the sky,
Clouds of stratus stratus,
whipping up from
seas far south,
painting
a party sunny Sunday
on the beach
of West Palm,
home of spinner sharks
at a meet up
feeding frenzy
outside
three-foot blue curls,
ridden by surfers close by,
lookouts in the sky,
gifts of Zeus,
the Greek,
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky,
sudden clouds of puffy nimbus
pockets of rain, maybe snow
ridges in the sky
shut down
the sun’s furnace,
gifts from Zeus,
the Greek
god of sky and weather.
Lookouts in the sky, copyright by Mike Marcellino 2009
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